


Good Little Pet

by ashyfur524



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A lot of bad things, Aftermath of Torture, Bondage, F Slur is Used, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Other, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Richie Tozier Whump, Sexual Abuse, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, THE LOSERS ARE NOT KIDS IN THIS, They're young adults and they live in the wrong place, Touch-Starved Richie Tozier, Vulgarities, Whump Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-08-28 13:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16723947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashyfur524/pseuds/ashyfur524
Summary: WARNING!! Rape scene in this chapter! If you don't want to read that, I suggest leaving, but most the people who are reading this don't really care, this warning is just so I don't feel bad for posting this after going quiet for forever





	1. Chapter 1

The hallways of Derry’s high school had become a war zone, a minefield littered with various papers and strewn with slurs that splintered against the walls and impaled their targets like bomb shrapnel. Especially for freshman, who had all become locker stuffing within the first few weeks of the school year. But that was the beginning of the year, and he’d been initiated in the fine art of helping the underclassmen from their metal prisons very early on. This was summer vacation, goddammit, and next-year senior Richie Tozier was going to have fun. No murderous space clowns, no friends broken arms, no bullshit, and  _ especially _ no Bowers Gang. 

 

Well, at least that’s what he’d hoped. It was only five minutes passed the bell that released the adolescents of Derry into the hot summer streets, and already, one of his friends was on Henry Bowers’ chopping block, on their knees in front of the gang of young adults,  _ people who shouldn’t still be in this town _ , Richie thought as he rushed to Stanley’s side, eyes burning with determined fire. 

 

“Leave him alone, you asshats!” He snapped, shoving his oversized glasses back up on his face. The posse of human dragons focused their glittering eyes on the new target, and the almost oily tone of Patrick’s voice assaulted Richie’s ears. 

 

“And why should we? What’s a little fag like you gonna do to stop us?” Richie found himself grinning up at the taller man, laughing softly before his words tumbled past his lips, unable to stop himself.

 

“Oh, you stopped sucking Henry off long enough to notice I’m gay? Good for you, Hockstetter, someone should give you a prize!” 

 

The world around him lurched violently as Patrick’s bony fist connected with his jaw, knocking Richie to the grass as the larger teen pinned him to the earth. The warm sensation of his nose leaking blood, the hot tang of iron as his face was all but beaten in, the bite of his broken glasses frames digging into his flesh, the sickening snap of his nose being broken for the fourth time, the faint sound of Stanley screaming everything was a blur to him. Patrick finally stopped after he’d deemed Richie suitably broken, leaving the young man on the grass, a faint bloody halo encircling his head. 

 

“You could’ve been killed, you idiot!” Stanley’s voice sounded like he was far away, as if Richie’s head was being held underwater at the quarry. He absently noticed the blurry outline of the Jewish boy he had very recklessly saved from the brunt of Patrick’s fury.    
  
“Didn’t know you were a hummin’bird, Stanny..” Richie slurred, vaguely noting the taste of his own blood in his mouth as Stanley helped him to lean upright. Stan rolled his eyes, grimacing as he Richie spat crimson onto the dark asphalt of the road, limping alongside of his friend. “Aw, c’mon, aren’t you gonna thank me for savin’ you, princess?” He teased, hissing in soft pain as Stanley wrapped his arm around Richie’s waist for support. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, my hero..” Stanley sighed, light strawberry blonde hair catching the afternoon sun as he helped keep Richie upright. “You’d better help me get this blood off of my clothes, Tozier..” He murmured, feeling the sensation of Richie’s blood seeping through his shirt and sticking to his skin. “Let’s get you to my place, I think you left your spare pair of glasses with me this week..” 

  
  


The afternoon faded into a bruised sunset, casting glittering specks of fire into the eyes of the young men sitting on Henry’s porch. Moose, Peter, and Gard had diverged from the pack, leaving Belch, Victor, and Patrick comfortably settled on the old wood of the house. Henry’s eyes were focused on something none of the others could see, ice blue orbs frozen in thought.  

 

“Damn, Patrick, you really went for it back there!” Belch slapped a hand down on the small of Patrick’s back, causing Patrick to jerk a bit as he lit up a cigarette. Vic offered a smirk, laughing smugly. 

“Yeah, did you see his face? You turned that beaver into roadkill!” Henry could hear his pulse as blood shot through his body, trying to focus on his heartbeat and not the incessant bickering of his companions. 

Patrick cracked a wry smile, eyeing his companions as a theatrically loud sigh escaped his lips. “If only! I wouldn’t mind seeing that little fag’s head crushed under our tires like that…” 

Victor darted his tongue out to wet his lips, grinning at the mental image Patrick had put into his brain. “Yeah.. I bet his eyes would pop right through his glasses! It’d look just like those glasses with the slinky eyeballs on ‘em.”   
Patrick sighed in mild exasperation. “Don’t be stupid, that’s not how it works. He’d just turn out looking like a mashed up tomato.”

Belch grimaced, glancing skeptically at Patrick. “No way, the eyes always pop out when they crush heads in the movies and stuff!” He argued, silently noting the way that Henry was slowly curling in on himself, the ridges of his spine peering out of the flesh of his neck. Patrick snorted in amusement as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Those aren’t real heads, stupid.” 

Victor looked up from the peeling paint clinging to the stair railing’s supports. “Well it’s gotta be at least somewhat based on reality, you think the people in Hollywood aren’t doing their research before they pull those sweet effects?”

Belch let out a harsh bark of a laugh, clearly unconvinced. “What, so people in Hollywood are just going around crushing people’s heads for research?”  
Victor shrugged, rolling his eyes as Patrick flicked some of his ashes into the dying grass around the porch. “Trust me, the stuff in the movies is nothing like the real deal. Those effects guys are just pulling that shit out of their asses..” Victor scoffed, pursing his lips. “How would you know, genius?”  
Henry snapped upright, turning to face the trio on his porch. “ _Jesus_ _Christ_ , would you assholes shut the fuck up?”   
Belch pursed his lips, surprised that he hadn’t grown somewhat used to Henry’s outbursts. “Jeez, Henry, what crawled up your ass and died?” Henry let out a long, heavy sigh, propping his head in his hands and running his fingers through his hair, looking a bit like The Thinker, were The Thinker based off of a frustrated young man. “Nothing, you guys are just getting on my nerves..” He mumbled, drinking in the scent of cigarette smoke as it danced in the evening light.  
“What’s wrong, Henry?” Patrick grinned like the Cheshire Cat, scooting himself closer to the boy. “You mad that little Bucky Beaver called you a queer?” Henry growled low in his throat, turning his burning eyes onto Patrick. 

“Shut your fucking mouth!” He snapped, gripping Patrick’s cigarette in his fingers and rolling it out, ignoring the burning sensation that shot through his calloused fingertips.    
Victor looked up at Henry’s outburst, sighing softly.

“It’s okay, Hen, you know he just said that to piss you off..” Henry craned his neck towards Vic, face reddening. 

“What part of ‘shut the fuck up’ do you not understand? Jesus, I’m so fucking sick of this bullshit!”   
Victor winced slightly, brows knitting in a mixture of frustration and confusion. “What do you mean..?” 

Henry looked a bit like a rabid dog as he spoke, eyes wild and almost paranoid. “What do you think I mean? I’m sick of those losers going around acting like they’re tough shit! Someone’s gotta teach them a lesson about who runs this town, one that’ll really stick for good this time..”   
Belch stared at Henry in disbelief. “Are you joking? You saw Patrick back there, he beat that kid to a bloody pulp! What do you want us to do, kill ‘em?” 

“Don’t be stupid, of course not! I just think we’ve gotta switch up our act a bit and really scare the shit out of them this time.” Henry retorted, huffing in annoyance. Victor chuckled, looking to Belch as his voice broke the lingering unease hanging in the air.

“You sound like a fucking mob boss, dude. What do you wanna do, tie ‘em up and throw ‘em in the river?” Belch laughed, putting on a thick New York accent. 

“Yeah, you want us to break their knees for ya, boss? Or should we try danglin’ ‘em out a window by their ankles?” Victor laughed softly, adopting Belch’s accent and leaning against the stair railing. 

“Maybe we just gotta jump one of ‘em, yeah? Ya know, get a pillowcase over their head, rough ‘em up a bit and throw ‘em in the trunk?” Henry groaned in frustration, rubbing his temples. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys are idiots..”   
Patrick’s dark eyes lit up at Vic’s suggestion, and he grinned slowly. “You know, that might not be such a bad idea..”   
Henry stared at Patrick as if he’d grown a second head. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“What if we  _ did _ jump one of them? It wouldn’t be hard, we just need chloroform and some zip ties..” Patrick mused aloud.     
Belch looked to the gangly young man, the idea sounding extreme, even for them. “No offense, Patrick, but that sounds kind of… insane.”   
Patrick rolled his eyes, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m just saying, if you want to scare them into submission that’s how you do it. I can guarantee they wouldn’t fuck with us after something like that.   
Henry looked up at Patrick, feeling at the tattered fabric of his jeans. ”Where the hell do you even get chloroform?”   
Victor’s eyes went wide at Henry’s question. “Whoa whoa whoa, Henry, don’t tell me you’re actually considering this!” Henry turned his attention towards Victor, growling softly in mild aggravation. “Shut up! It’s not like we’re gonna kill anyone, Jesus…” Patrick smirked, the scenario unfolding in his mind like a twisted film. “All we’d have to do is take one of ‘em and lock ‘em up in a shed or something. If we keep ‘em there for a few days it’ll probably scare that whole posse of fags! Seven losers with one stone..” 

“You really think it’d be that simple?” Belch murmured softly. Victor looked at Henry, dark eyes filling with concern. “No, of course not, you asshat! Dude, that’s super illegal, not to mention fucking insane! If we get caught-!” 

“Then we won’t get caught, dipshit.” Patrick interrupted, voice eerily calm. “Trust me, it’ll be easy, and once we’re done we’re gonna have those losers kissing our asses for the rest of our lives..”  


	2. Chapter 2

The setting summer sun filtered through the leaves as the evening heat sliced through the cool Maine air, casting shadows of various shades on the sidewalk that blurred in Richie’s vision as he pedaled through the town from the Urises. He was the messenger; it gave him a chance to feel the fresh air on his skin, and since he was one of the braver (read: more impulsive) Losers, if he ran into trouble, he could get himself out without too much of a struggle. He dropped his bike onto the gravel of the building’s parking lot, mounting the stairs as quietly as was possible, and picked the lock to Bev’s back door, nearly tripping into the home as he stepped over the threshold. The apartment felt haunted, not by a ghost, but by the toxic energy that Beverly’s father left behind. He could hear the soft drone of the television from the living room, accompanied by the muffled sound of snoring, and he reasoned that if he could practically fall into the kitchen after picking the lock, then Bev could easily make it into her bedroom. Now, all he had to do was bike back to Stan's and escort her back.. Or he could use the payphone.. He shoved his hand into his pocket, feeling for a quarter and rolling his eyes when he realized he’d have to bike back across town. He gently shut the door to Beverly’s home, and descended the stairs rather quickly, his mind so fixated on getting back to Stan’s house and back to Bev’s side that he momentarily forgot why he’d been sent to check her building in the first place.

  
    A cold, bony hand clamped onto his shoulder and pulled him flush against their chest, their other hand covering his mouth. His brown eyes went wide as he found Henry Bowers and the rest of his gang eyeing him like fresh meat, Patrick's breath hot on his ear.

 

Henry smirked down at the boy, eyes glittering with mirth as he looked down at their target. "We were hoping to have a little bit of fun with your girlfriend, Trashmouth.. Seeing as how she's probably fucking the six of you, I'd figure she'd be used to a gang bang. But you'll just have to do, won’t you, faggot?”

 

Richie grit his teeth, biting Patrick’s hand until he tasted blood and was able to speak. "Don’t you talk about Bevvie that way!" He struggled violently against Patrick's grip, terrified of the implications of the situation.

 

"Aww... look how scared he is.." Vic mocked, trying not to think about what Henry had planned for their latest victim. It was one thing to bully, but this.. This was going a little far. Henry clenched his fist and punched Richie square in the gut, glaring down at the young man. "You’re gonna pay, you little shit!”

 

Richie blinked up at Henry, puffing his cheek as he bit back a wave of nausea. He wriggled a bit more, surprised at how strong Patrick really was. This wasn’t ending well for him. His eyes darted around as he frantically tried to find some way to escape, but his mind began to grow fuzzy, and he could feel his skin practically burning up against Hockstetter’s arms. The world grew gray and dizzying, and his head lolled back limply against the older boy’s shoulder.

 

    “Get ‘im the trunk and let’s get outta here..” Henry murmured, strangely calm with the situation as Belch settled into the driver’s seat, glancing nervously at the other boys before turning the engine over and fixing his eyes on the vacant streets in front of him. Patrick and Vic hoisted Richie’s unconscious body upright, Patrick gripping the boy by his wrists hard enough to bruise, Victor by Richie’s ankles. The sound of tires peeling out against the loose stones broke the serene quiet of the night, the only trace that Richie had been there being his bike, balanced precariously against the side of the building.

 

* * *

 

Richie came to in a dimly lit room that he could only assume was part of a cellar or a basement, (he didn’t have his glasses on), and he immediately knew three things. One, he couldn’t move his hands or legs, they were handcuffed to the bed he was on. Two, he was completely naked, he could feel the chill of the room lapping at his bare core. And three, This was something horribly wrong. Something he’d only heard of happening to girls. He thrashed atop the mattress, trying feebly to get the cuffs to loosen up.   
  
    "What the _FUCK_!?" He shouted into the blurry darkness. "Where the hell am I, what is this?!"

A cruel laugh sounded from one of the darker corners of the basement, and he shuddered as the light was blotted out by the silhouette of Henry Bowers looking down at him. Henry’s calloused hands settled on his bare thighs, causing Richie to wriggle fruitlessly beneath him.

“Let go of me, Bowers!” Richie shouted, squeezing his eyes shut as he turned his head away. “What am I paying for, huh? Is this because I called you and Patrick gay? Because I’m not sorry for saying the truth, and-!” His eyes snapped open, and his voice died in his throat as one of Henry’s hands moved from his legs to his neck.     

 

“Shut up, you little cunt..” Henry snarled, his nails biting into the flesh of Richie’s neck, Richie’s muscles flattening and stretching beneath Henry’s palm. Richie gasped softly, trying desperately to force air into his lungs. “You’re here because you and your loser friends still haven’t gotten it through their thick skulls that  _ you _ aren’t in charge of this town..” He moved to speak into Richie’s ear, his breath warm and reeking of cigarette smoke. “I am..” Richie struggled a bit more, eyes wide with terror. 

“Am I gonna fuckin’ die down here? You gonna use your basement like a deer shack, just rip me the fuck open?” Henry laughed softly, the sound harsh in Richie’s ears. 

 

“If you’re lucky..” 


	3. Chapter 3

Stan was never someone to jump to radical conclusions. He was logical, he thought things through, he reasoned out every outcome he possibly could. But Richie never took this long to check on Bev’s place, and even if he did, he would have stumbled back to the Uris household by now, a living warning of the danger Beverly would be in if she went back to her father. 

That was last night. The sun had set and risen again, cascading into Stan's room as he woke up to his friend perched on his bed, her ginger hair looking like a living flame in the morning light. He tried to trace her curls with his eyes in a futile attempt to calm himself down. 

Something felt wrong, some great toxic thing writhing around in his stomach that planted horrible ideas into his brain.

“Beverly..?” He murmured softly, studying the girl sitting next to him on his bed. Bev turned to look at him, grey-green eyes making his skin crawl.

“What is it, Stan..?” Stanley wet his lips, his breath shaky as he forced his voice to work.

“What.. What if we didn’t..” The pale lines encircling his face burned at the mere thought of that summer, but he couldn’t crumble. Not now. “What if we didn’t kill IT..?”

Beverly gawked at her friend, her body going rigid. “We.. We _had_ to, IT crawled back into IT’s hole, we beat the living shit out of IT, IT..” All of the color had drained from her face, pale skin spattered with freckles, like dying embers streaked across her cheeks. “You don’t think..”

Stan nodded once, standing slowly. There was a fire in his eyes, and he shuffled through the contents of his desk until he found a flashlight. He moved to his closet, pulling his rain boots from their home in the back corner, beneath his rain slicker, and slipped into them with a bit of hesitation.

“We’ve got some ground to cover..” He stated grimly, moving to the door and beginning to descend the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder, pausing on the stairs. “You’re coming, right?” Bev clenched her fists, nodding slowly and following Stan out of the house.

* * *

Everything seemed louder in the sewers; the sounds of their steps in the gray water, the thrum of his heartbeat, the way his breath filled his lungs and rang in his ears. Stan flicked his flashlight down one of the pipeways, unable to rid himself of the feeling of glowing yellow eyes watching their every move. He looked to Beverly, reaching his hand toward her like a small child might, one who was still afraid of crossing the street alone. Beverly moved to his side, tracing the pale white scar that separated his life line into two segments with her thumb as she took his hand in her own.

“Richie?” Bev hollered, squinting into the semi-dark for any sign of movement. The two teens slogged through the sewers, sweat trickling from their brows and down their noses, their backs, running between their shoulder blades and dripping into the murky water. But they didn’t stop then. They could practically smell the stench of decay and death as they ventured in and out of pipes that could have been shifting like a labyrinth. But they didn’t stop then. Stan swore he could hear the laughter of IT, something cruel and mocking echoing through the cistern. But they didn’t stop then. They didn’t stop until Beverly’s throat had gone raw from calling out for her lost friend, when Stan felt that he could no longer stay upright without leaning against the auburn-haired girl next to him, long after the curfew had set in, and the summer sun had disappeared, leaving the Derry sky speckled with bright white teardrops.

 

 

Stan scrubbed at his skin under the showerhead until it was a light shade of pink, tousling his hair dry before retreating to the safety of his room. He curled up on the bedding, listening to the sounds of the shower running as Bev washed the sewers from her body, staring at his ceiling in a sort of daze. The shower turned off, and soon, he found himself encircled by warmth, something sweet and scented like lavender and cigarette smoke. He shifted onto his side, burying his face into Beverly’s clothed chest, and allowed himself to break, marring her pajama top with dark blotchy teardrops.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Richie’s head still hurt like hell. His eyes opened slowly, and the blurry grey mess that was Henry Bowers’ basement came into semi-focus. He could see the vaguely square shapes of the washing machine and the clothes dryer, the white metal being a stark contrast that pulled his attention away from the bleak stone surrounding him. He could hear the floorboards above him creak, and a icy bolt of fear shot down his spine and bit into his heart. He didn’t want them to come down to check on him, like he was some sort of wild animal in quarantine. He bent his arms, groping at the metal securing him to the bed and tugging as hard as he could. The bed rocked, the feet scuffing against the stone. The noise from upstairs grew closer, and he mentally berated himself. He’d made a loud fucking noise, of course they’d check on their hostage if they knew he was awake again. The door to the cellar opened, and the air grew heavy and dark as Henry descended the stairs. 

“You comfortable, Tozier?” He looked the young man up and down, seeing just how bruised Richie’s wrists were from his tossing and turning last night. “You bruise so nice, y’know that?” Henry’s voice traveled through Richie’s head like a steel spike piercing his brain. 

“Wow, you must be a real ladykiller, huh?” Richie remarked, pitching his voice down to impersonate the monster above him. “Fuck yeah baby, bleed under your skin for me, break all those tiny blood vessels, ooh, shit-!” The laugh forming in Richie’s throat became trapped under Henry’s broad palm, and he inhaled as best he could. “You gonna keep chokin’ me every time you see me?” He rasped, wetting his lips as Henry growled. 

“Only if you keep mouthing off..” Richie forced another breath, the movement of his Adam’s apple against Henry’s hand like trying to swallow a rock. 

“No promises..” He wheezed, causing the pressure to grow more firm, more pronounced as Henry dug his nails in. 

 

“Has this not set in yet, you fucking idiot? That you’re mine now? Because I can make it set in real quick..” Henry smirked, flicking out his switchblade. The shine of the metal caused Richie to try to draw his legs closed, to bring his knees to his chest, but the only thing he succeeded in doing was hurting his ankles. Henry straddled Richie’s scrawny hips, resting his blade in his hand like one might a pencil. Richie began to shake under the pressure, and Henry nearly laughed. 

“Please, no, don’t!” Richie whimpered, his arms shaking in their restraints. The blade ghosted down Richie’s side, causing his core to tremble.

 

And then the pain shot across his stomach like lightning, leaking red onto the sheets as Richie screamed in agony. He gripped at the metal links of his handcuffs, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard he was squeezing down, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms as Henry worked. 

“Remember how you stopped us from doin’ this to that fat kid you love so much? Think of this as me finishing the job..” Richie lay on the bed, feeling his own blood making the sheets damp as he sobbed, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Henry laughed. Richie’s breathing came in erratic spurts, his grip loosening on the cuffs just a bit as his head began to feel fuzzy, a heat spreading across his skin that made his fingers and toes tingle. The world faded into a dark nothingness, leaving Henry to mark up the teen as he chose. 

 

He flicked the blade back into his handle when he had finished, admiring his handiwork as it bled onto the sheets and surrounded Richie’s lower torso with a red halo. His name was emblazoned into the pale flesh of Richie's stomach, forever branding the little twerp as his.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few weeks crawled at a turtle’s pace, as the commotion of losing another child faded into static. It was just a part of living in Derry, being prepared for your child to disappear, the thing you loved most being snatched from you in the blink of an eye, and then seemingly forgetting they’d ever been born. The Barrens were dreadfully quiet, and as Bill Denbrough sent another stone into the placid water, he couldn’t help but feel empty. He studied the ripples as the stone sank under the surface, watching as the quarry grew still once more. Ever since Stan had told him about Richie’s disappearance, his heart had grown heavy, and the faint imprints of six-year-old fingers grabbed at his mind, tugging incessantly. He couldn’t even escape in his dreams, as most if not all of his dreams morphed into hellish nightmares spattered with the blood of his brother, the blood of his friends, his own blood in some cases. He had given up on sleep. It didn’t help him anymore. He could do plenty to wake up, including, but not limited to what he was going to do now. 

He pulled his shirt and shorts off, placing them in a neat pile by his shoes and socks before bracing himself, imagining the stone beneath him as a diving block. He pushed himself forward, plunging into the frigid water and holding his breath until he could no longer. Bill surfaced with a great flailing of his arms, pushing the water out of his way and gasping in large gulps of air. He smiled breathlessly, moving himself to float on his back and allowing the water to encircle him. It was relaxing, the sensation of being weightless, being able to forget all the pain that haunted him as he lay in the great stone mouth, the sun falling in faint shafts through the forest’s foliage in some places, and pounding down upon the water in others. This was a second home for him, for all the Losers, and he nearly forgot that the others knew of this place...

 

Until Beverly splashed down into the water next to him, causing him to snort water into his nose and splutter and cough. Beverly laughed softly, motioning to her friends at the top of the quarry to join them. 

“You didn’t think we were just going to let you throw your own little pity party here, did you?” She grinned as Bill sheltered himself from another cannonball as Ben joined the two of them. Bill couldn’t help but smile as he saw Eddie folding his polo and placing it next to the pile of clothes.

“I was kinda h-hoping you wh-h-ould..” Bill admitted, his stutter rearing its head due to the chill of the quarry pool. Beverly rolled her eyes, treading water next to Bill as Eddie turned the trio into a quartet. 

Eddie’s head popped up out of the water, and he shook his head, his hair sticking to his forehead as he looped his arms around Bill’s semi-submerged shoulders. He sighed softly. “We tried to get Stan to come with us.. He.. He can’t bring himself outside unless he’s sweeping the sewers..” He laughed, the sound bittersweet. “He’s acting kinda like you were..” Bill grew stiff, and Eddie instantly released the young man from his arms. Bill pushed himself out of the water, wrapping his arms around his knees. He swallowed, trembling as the summer air embraced his body and raised goosebumps all across his skin. Eddie pushed himself out of the quarry, settling next to Bill and looking him over, hesitantly reaching a hand out towards him. 

“I.. I’m sorry.. That was a shitty thing to say..” Bill turned slowly to look at his friend, inching his own hand closer to Eddie’s. 

“No, it wasn’t.. It was on your m-m-m-!” He shook his head sharply, stopping the stutter in its tracks. “Mind..” Bill rested his hand on top of Eddie’s, sighing as he looked to the quarry pool, Bev and Ben having paused in their summer splashing to focus on what was happening on shore. 

“We should p-p-puh-probably get back in..” Bill offered, tugging Eddie’s wrist lightly. If they were going to pretend it was a normal summer for a little while, he might as well make the most of it. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!! Rape scene in this chapter! If you don't want to read that, I suggest leaving, but most the people who are reading this don't really care, this warning is just so I don't feel bad for posting this after going quiet for forever

Richie sat as upright as he could without breaking his shoulders, which wasn’t very far, his heart slamming against his ribs. He curled his fingers gingerly, trembling as he shifted himself on the bed. Moving was one of the most uncomfortable things he could do down here, followed very closely by coughing, waking up, falling asleep, and just generally existing. He could hear the shuffling of footsteps above him, one pair heavy, one pair lighter. Henry was up there, with someone else, maybe Patrick or Vic, maybe Peter, he wasn’t too sure. His core trembled as he eased back onto the bed, and his blood ran cold as the door to the basement opened, each footstep making the smaller teen shake. 

“Well.. Look who’s up..” Richie’s blood froze in his veins. That wasn’t Henry. He’d sent someone else to check on him. Someone with a horrible track record of taking good care of living things. 

“Patrick..” Richie started, using his wrists to give himself some leverage before feeling the metal of the cuffs holding him to the bed bite into his skin. A gasp of pain escaped him, and Patrick smirked, stalking to the bed. 

“Are those too tight, Tozier?” He cooed, brown-black eyes shining hungrily in the faint light of the basement. He ran his cool fingers along the cuts in Richie’s lower abdomen, not once breaking eye contact with the terrified young man. “I like your nametag.. You think I should give you one, too, one that’s more visible, just in case you get out? I don’t like it when my pets run away..” Richie couldn’t make any part of him move. He was stuck here with someone who looked like they’d be perfectly happy ripping him open and making an arts and crafts project out of his insides. Patrick growled, moving himself on top of Richie’s hips, further trapping him. Patrick’s hands found a home just a few inches below the cuffs, and Richie tugged against the bonds again, digging the metal deeper into his pale skin until they broke through, hot blood lazily trickling down his arms. Patrick’s eyes lit up at the sight of fresh blood, almost as if he were a shark in human clothes. He brought his lips to Richie’s right arm, drawing his tongue along the skin and shuddering as the scarlet pooled in his mouth. 

“ _ Fuck _ , baby-boy..” Richie could feel his heartbeat increasing, racing against the bony cage of his ribs. That name coming from that mouth did so many things to him, and none of them were good. Richie was panicking, and he knew that only meant he was encouraging Patrick. He couldn’t cry. He’d give Patrick just what he wanted if he cried. So he sat there, shaking like a leaf in the fall wind as Patrick mouthed at his wrists. The sounds of the older man drinking his blood filled his ears and drowned out all other thoughts. Richie was trapped down here by a bunch of sadomasochists, one of which was apparently a vampire.

“Can.. Can I get clean sheets?” He asked after a long while, breaking the silence between them. Patrick’s lips left Richie’s skin with a wet smack, and Hockstetter laughed, almost breathlessly, as he sat himself back on Richie’s hips.

“Why? I think they look better like this..” Patrick purred, licking his lips like a cat. “Besides.. You didn’t ask correctly..” Richie squinted in confusion, curiosity clawing at the inside of his skull.

“Well, how do I ask correctly, then..?” Richie asked, prompting Patrick to give him a cruel smile. Richie shut his eyes; he could see the faint traces of his blood lining Patrick’s gums, staining his teeth with a thin layer of red. 

“You can ask lots of different ways, kitten.. You could say, Daddy, will you let me have clean sheets? I made them all bloody, and then I’d tell you that of course you made them all bloody, that’s why you’re so fun to have, and then I’d cuff you to the stair railing and make your bed all comfy, but you haven’t earned that yet..” Richie shuddered, more questions swimming to the front of his brain, down his spine, and out past his lips. 

“How.. How do I earn that..” He wet his lips, forcing himself to amend his sentence. “How do I earn that.. Daddy..?” Patrick’s smile widened, and he ran a hand through Richie’s wild curls. 

“ _ There _ we go, that’s better, baby-doll..” Patrick murmured, pressing a kiss to Richie’s skin. Richie wished that the contact had melted his flesh off like acid, then at least he wouldn’t have to be stuck anymore. 

“We’ll have to bring someone else into this conversation if you really want all those answers, but if you’re with  _ me _ and you want to earn it..” He chuckled, rocking his hips up and removing himself from Richie’s body as he spoke. “You’ve gotta make me feel good~..” Richie felt all color leave his face as the meaning of Patrick’s words hit him like a sledgehammer to his stomach. 

“No, no, god, please, no..” He whimpered, voice barely a whisper as Patrick began to strip off his clothes.  His body tensed up as he tried to curl in on himself, nearly falling into hysterics as the metal scraped his ankles. “Please don’t do this..” Patrick paused. 

“You want me to give you what you want or not?” He snarled, shooting fear down Richie’s spine. 

“Y-yes, Daddy, but-!”

“Then shut up..” Patrick spat, gripping at Richie’s hips hard enough to bruise. Richie shut his eyes, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, trying to focus on something other than the man above him. 

Pain shot up Richie’s spine, and his body went rigid as tears beaded in his eyes. Patrick hissed in pleasure as he reveled in how tight Richie’s body was around his length. Richie’s body felt warm again, and his limbs were fuzzy. He wasn’t in his own head, he wasn’t in his body anymore, and for that he was thankful. He idly felt his hips rocking against Patrick’s rhythm, but other than that, there was nothing, nothing but a pain that he would only feel once he had returned to his head. His tears trailed down his cheeks, making the sheets beneath his head damp as he focused on a point passed Patrick’s form, someplace he couldn’t truly see, his eyes vacant and empty.

Patrick groaned as he dug his fingers into Richie’s hips, his thumbs resting in the grooves between Richie’s hip and his stomach. Christ, the little fag felt so good taking his cock. He moved his mouth to Richie’s collar, sinking his teeth into the pale flesh, the rush of Richie’s blood filling his mouth again nearly driving him over the edge. If Henry had already gotten to mark this kid up, then he’d give him some identification as well. His vision flashed white for a split second, and he came hard into their little fucktoy. He removed himself from Richie slowly, before an idea curled around his brain. He grabbed his jeans off of the basement floor, fishing his Swiss army knife from his pocket. He flicked the blade open, carving his initials crudely into Richie’s upper chest, just between the notch of his neck. If Henry had already marked the kid up, who was stopping him from decorating Richie in his own way?

Patrick couldn’t wait for the others to break his new plaything even more.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Eddie wasn’t in his room. He wasn’t in his bed, wasn’t in his home. He wasn’t even the same height. He was alone, slogging through the greywater, his sneakers soaked through as the disgusting water lapped at his feet. He could feel eyes on him, glowing yellow eyes that made him feel like he was going insane with every step he took. But he had to try, right? He had to see if he could find Richie down here..  _

_ He shrieked in terror as hands grabbed his ankles, pale claws dragging him through the sewer water and under the surface into someplace he had never seen, someplace dark and dingy and foul. The water filled his lungs, made him splutter and cough until everything became dry and covered in dirt and he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t see anything other than dirt and his face felt like it was full of broken glass. He could vaguely hear something like crying from above him, and he managed to move just a bit, flying from the earth and staring down at the gathering of six people, tears streaking their faces. Eddie forced himself to return to the ground, clawing through the earth with spectral fingers until he was face to face with the rotting flesh beneath.  _

_ Richie was gone. _

* * *

 

Eddie awoke from his nightmare with a start, on the verge of tears as he balled himself up in his blankets.The fear was something that never would leave them, all of the Losers had this unspoken sense of dread about never finding Richie, or finding him when it was far too late. He didn’t want the last time he saw Richie to be when they lowered him into his grave. He sat up out of his bed, touching his feet to the carpet and moving to his door, descending the stairs and grabbing a glass from the kitchen cabinet. He freed a few ice cubes from the ice tray, chills running up his arm as he stood in front of the freezer. He shivered as he pressed the freezer shut, filling his cup from the sink and retreating back to his room, making sure that the water didn’t spill by holding it to his lips and nursing it as he walked up the stairs. Eddie know he’d need the cool liquid to settle down. He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep tonight. Which was a shame, saying as it was like, three in the morning. He set the glass of water on the whetstone coaster by his bedside and reclined onto his bed, looking vacantly towards the window. Some part of him hoped that Richie would sense his distress like he always did, and that soon, Eddie would hear a pebble or two against his window, and Richie would come in and pull him out of his own mind. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen, not until he’d been found and was back in the arms of the Losers. After laying in bed staring at the ceiling for a solid half hour, Eddie grit his teeth and stood to grab his fanny pack. He ran a hand through his hair as he groped around in his closet, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a sweater, one that Richie had left over the last time he’d snuck in, ‘Just in case you start to miss me,’ he’d reasoned. Eddie held the collar to his face, inhaling as the stale scent of cigarette smoke bled together with the smell of Richie, soft and musty yet untamed and sharp at the same time. He propped his window open, staring at the ground before deciding the safest way out would be to bite the bullet and jump. He sat himself down on the windowsill, dangling his legs before pushing them flat against the outside of the house and leaning forward. 

There was something exhilarating in this, Eddie thought as he caught himself on the grass, his palms covered with grass stain and dirt. He followed the walkway around the back of his house, unlatching the gate as quietly as was possible, and sprinting down the street. He couldn’t do this, not right now, not alone. He had to get to Stan. 

* * *

Everything was far more unnerving in the dark. Every noise, every little movement was magnified by some unseen demon, a presence that warped the minds of everyone in Derry. And it made Eddie’s skin crawl. He was the only kid dumb enough to go out after the curfew. But his mother would have never allowed him out of the house, and if she even knew what he was doing, she’d lock him in his room like the Rapunzel he had been made into, and then he wouldn’t be able to help them find Richie. It would be like that summer all over again, and he never wanted to relive anything like that summer again in his life. He finally arrived at Stan’s house, and, pulling a card from Richie’s book, he wandered to the back of the house, grabbing a small handful of gravel from the drive and peppering Stan’s window with the little rocks. The light flicked on, and Eddie watched as Stan’s shadow took up the window frame. He smiled gently, waving up at his friend. Stan opened his window, shaking his head. “I’ll go get the back door for you..” He murmured softly before shutting and locking his window. Eddie moved into the backyard, slipping into the Uris household as soon as Stan had cracked the back door open. 

“What are you doing here? It’s, it’s not even properly morning, Eddie..” Eddie shivered as Stan ushered him up the stairs. 

“Nightmare..” Eddie whispered, suddenly feeling very childish for sprinting all the way to Stan’s house just because he’d had a bad dream. Stan paused in his doorframe, and it was only then that Eddie was able to see the deep-set bags under Stan’s eyes. Eddie leaned back onto Stan’s bed, looking up at his ceiling. “You got the same thing?” He asked as Stan joined Eddie on his bed. 

“Yeah..” He whispered, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and holding the smaller teen to him. “Have ever since he went missing..” Eddie sighed heavily, shutting his eyes and curling into Stan’s chest. 

“I thought it’d be better if we were both together.. Just, helping each other..” Stan nodded, burying his face into Eddie’s hair. 

“You’re right about that.. This helps, having someone next to me..” Eddie smiled at Stan’s comment, allowing his eyes to hesitantly flutter shut. 

“G’night, Stan..” Eddie murmured. 

“Night, Eddie..” Stan replied, allowing his room to go silent again, the sound of Eddie’s breathing keeping him grounded.


End file.
